


More Than Meets the Surface

by MSpataro210



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 70's, Corporate Lawyer Foggy Nelson, F/M, Fisk wants Murdock, Hippie Matt Murdock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Private Investigator Frank Castle, Reporter Karen Page, The Hand is like a hippie organization, but also very dark, but no one will tell Frank why, but people will, everyone kind of wants Matt Murdock, no dogs will be hurt in this fic, people gon get hurt, some may even die, they want Matt Murdock, who also doubles as a hitman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7101832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSpataro210/pseuds/MSpataro210
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Castle is known to be the best if you want to find a guy, even better if you want the guy killed.  However, this new case has him scratching his head.  His client wants Matt Murdock dead, but he's sure if he kills the guy the next one going down will most likely be him.  Going further down the rabbit hole of conspiracies and criminal plans was not what he signed up for though.  That and having his whole worldview being shifted because of one guy.<br/>Thankfully, alcohol exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Meets the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there people! Had this in my laptop for quite some time and decided to finish the first chapter today! I got inspired with the story idea when I saw Frank Medri's 70's Punisher. So if you wanna know what Jon Bernthal should look like take a quick peek at it before reading!  
> Enjoy!

            The smoke billows and gathers in the small room. It sinks into every available surface, from the leather upholstery of the armchair to the venetians Karen convinced him to get one early morning after a nice, long fuck. It adds flavor to the tumbler of whiskey that’s been resting on the crowded, mahogany table. It seeps into his clothing, the worn-out turtleneck, corduroy pants and jacket. It makes it harder for hardened private investigator, Frank Castle, to see who entered his office.

            “If you’re here to kill me,” Frank slurs, squinting, “please come back during work hours.”

            “I’m not here to kill you Mr. Castle,” the deep voice rumbles, “I’m here to hire you.”

            “I still stand by my original statement,” he mutters, picking the glass back up and finishing it.

            “Are you always this cheery with clients?” the man asks from behind the cigarette fog.

            “Depends what was in my glass,” Frank shrugs, “Also who I’m talking to. Mind stepping out of the smoke?”

            He waddles closer. His stark white waistcoat startlingly differs from the dirt and grime of Frank’s office. He holds a bejeweled cane in his right paw, and a white fedora covers what Frank can tell is a sparkling, pristine dome. A fur coat sits lazily on his shoulders. His pants could fit a starving family of four. His smile would send warning flares up in his Frank’s mind if he hadn’t drowned out his conscious.

            “Mr. Fisk,” the man holds his hand, “Mr. Wilson Fisk.”

            Frank stares at the rings on his fingers before slowly trailing his eyes back up to meet Fisk’s small, black ones. He pours himself another glass without looking.

            “Well, yes,” Fisk retracts his hand, smoothing it down his linen pants, “I suppose introductions are a bit unnecessary. I’m sure you’re quite well aware of me-“

            “Just tell me what you want me to do,” Frank interrupts.

            “Ah, that,” the other man, sits gingerly on Frank’s chair. The detective winces at the groan of the old piece of furniture. “Yes, I, ah, have need of your services.”

            “Most people do when they come here,” Frank rolls his eyes, turning.

            “No,” Fisk grumbles, “your _services_.”

            Frank silences. He cranes his neck to look at Fisk’s smirking face. He finishes off the new glass in seconds, slamming it down loudly.

            “I don’t do that work cheap,” he starts.

            “I’m a very wealthy man.”

            “And I don’t do that for just anybody,” Frank finishes, “what’s he done?”

            “Besides ruining my life,” Fisk says, “he’s got his mitts on some private info that, if released, could ruin my business and effectively make me penniless.”

            “I don’t care about all that,” Castle waves off, “as you can tell, I’m of the belief that you can make do with what you have.”

            “He also has strong ties within the Hand organization,” Fisk imports, “you know the one. It’s been all over the news as of late.”

            Frank thinks back. He remembers, on hazy nights where the alcohol in his bottle outweighed the drink in his system. Sees blurry faces of newscasters rolling into one, repeating the same story. Tales of an Eastern group called the Hand that has been gaining ground within the youth of America. Offering them a life without the demands impressed upon them by the “patriarchal elite of the capitalist system” or something like that. It seemed like sunshine and rainbows, but Frank could easily see behind all of that. Saw the storm clouds that hovered nearby, creating the distraction it needed as it swept in and drenched the area.

            “You know something about the Hand that the news don’t?” Frank asks.

            Fisk smiles, “Let’s just say they aren’t as ‘free-spirited’ as they like people to think they are. And Matt Murdock is at the center of it.”

            “Matt who?”

            “Matthew Murdock,” Fisk stands, “the man I’m asking you to look for. I’ll give you 50 grand to cover search fees now, and another 50 when I see his body.” The large man pulls a wad out of his pocket, flourishing it between his sausage fingers. He holds it out, waving it in front of Frank’s face.

            He stares at the bills, and the Franklins stare back. It doesn’t take long for Frank to come to a decision.

            He grabs at the bills.

            “I’ll take it,” he grumbles, sliding the money into a drawer on his desk.

            “Fantastic,” Fisk smiles fully, walking towards the door. He opens the door, exiting the dingy room.

            Frank remains seated, looking out into the inky night: the only light from the scattered dots of streetlights. Cars, even at this time of night, speed on by in Hell’s Kitchen. He can see the large dot that is Fisk make his way towards his car: a stretch limo, white. Frank’s surprised that it’s still intact. In this neighborhood, the dark dirt this place produces in spades swallows anything that shiny and bright up like it was quicksand.

            He flicks on his lighter, holding it near the cigarette he lazily dangles from his lips. It burns, and the smoke oozes into his throat.

            He gets up, stretching long and loud. Frank pushes the falling hair of his bangs back into place. He moves toward the file cabinet on the other side of the room, pulling it open. Instead of files, his trusty gun lies waiting. He checks the cartridge: fully loaded.

            “Well, girl, looks like we got some work to do.”

            He unbuttons his jacket, allowing the knit skull on his sweater to finally breathe in the stale air. 

* * *

 

            The summer sun filters lazily through the windows of the small office, brightening bits and patches in the small square of plaster. Papers are stacked on top of papers, teetering dangerously close to the edge of a desk. A typewriter sits in the middle, a fine line of dust around the edges. There’s a half-empty mug of coffee resting on a well-worn stain. The phone cord is twirled around a somewhat manicured finger, while the handset is nestled in between her neck and shoulder.

            “I don’t care what the mayor says,” the woman sitting behind the desk, talking into the receiver, says, “he promised the people of Hell’s Kitchen easier access to energy by spring and we still have rolling blackouts.”

            She continues yelling into the phone until she’s startled out of her tirade by a knock on the door. The woman turns in her chair.

            “I’ll have to call you back,” she says to the other person, “Just remember this is not over.”

            She slams the phone down and throws herself out of the chair. Her heels clack on the linoleum as she makes her way towards the office. She flattens the creases on her skirt, brushes down any flyaway hairs on her blonde hair, and twists her face into a more polite version of itself.

            She opens the door, for the mask to completely slip off.

            “Frank,” she sighs, “How’d you get in here?”

            Frank Castle grins, shrugging his shoulders in response. “Is that any way to greet a _close_ , personal friend, Karen?”

            Karen Page rolls her eyes, returning towards her seat. “Still doesn’t answer my question, Frank.”

            “Always so direct you are,” Frank closes the door, stepping in more, “one of my favorite things about you-“

            “Now.”

            Frank huffs, but knows when to back down. He follows her lead and takes a seat, twisting the chair around to lean on the backrest.

            “You don’t have the best security at this _dump_ Karen,” he explains, “Even for Hell’s Kitchen, this newspaper is worse off than a street-corner deli.”

            “We’ve haven’t had a problem,” Karen leans back, crossing her arms, “maybe the occasional _rat_ -“

            “Do you talk to everybody like this,” Frank interrupts her, “Or am I special or somethin’?”

            “You really don’t remember what I told you about coming to my office?” Karen raises a brow, “How I specifically used the words ‘don’t’ and ‘never’?”

            Frank scratches behind his neck, “I might have been drunk.”

            “There’s a surprise,” Karen shakes her head, “but you know I work with a bunch of sharks. You walking in here is like dumping chum into the ocean, and I’m not about to re-enact Jaws during lunch.”

            “Relax, I’m not going to do anything,” Frank laughs, “Unless… you _want_ to start somethin’…?” He leans forward, tiptoeing his fingers across her desk until they are right in front of her. She brushes them to the side.

            “I’ll pass right now,” Karen says, “Besides, I’m pretty sure the reason you came here wasn’t for that.”

            “You so sure?” Frank folds his arms on the back, resting his chin, “I remember one night you called me ‘A dirty boy with nothing but _sex_ on the mind’. Although I understand if you forgot, because after that I used my tongue to-“

            “Please,” she whispers, scandalized: her flush takes up half her face. “Like I said: _sharks_ ,” she continues, “So if you could be so kind-“

            “ _Kind_ isn’t in my dictionary,” he interrupts. It takes one look from her to change his tune. “For you though, I’ll get right to it,” he says, “I need you to look up some information about a man named Matt Murdock? Might be mixed in with reports about the Hand?”

            “The _Hand_?” Karen asks, leaning closer, “Frank, what the fuck did you get yourself involved in?”

            “An early retirement, that’s what,” Frank smirks, “I’m getting paid a fortune to off this guy. Only problem, I have no clue who he is. So my first thought was to go to my beautiful, intelligent, courageous investigative reporter friend and see _when_ she’ll find what I’m looking for.”

            Karen tells him he’s not impressed with eyes alone. He replies to her look with a shrug of his own.

            She sighs. “This is some deep shit, Castle,” she says, “Can you tell me who hired you at least?”

            “Probably not,” Frank grins, “but I’ve never given a fuck before so I’ll tell ya. The man calls himself Wilson Fisk-“

            “Fisk?” Karen asks, eyes widening. Frank doesn’t like that look. He’s seen that look twice on her face before. Once when he first met her, protecting her after a run in with some drunken bastards and their foul intentions. Another when he told her his story. It sends an icy chill down his spine.

            “You know anything about this guy that I don’t?”

            She rolls her eyes. “For a private detective slash ‘I can’t say without indicting myself,” she chuckles, getting up, “you sure don’t do a lot of research, do you?”

            “I like to rely on my instincts,” Frank smirks to her back. She’s digging through a nearby file cabinet, flipping through files for something.

            “Instincts don’t tell you this,” Karen turns back around, tossing the set of files she needed at him.

            He catches them with ease. It takes him a few minutes to flip through them all, but each turn of the page has him feeling worse and worse about the job.

            “My instincts weren’t _this_ detailed,” Frank closes the files, laying them on the desk, “but I did get the sense he wasn’t an _upright_ citizen of the city.”

            “Far from it,” Karen nods, “which means that this ‘Matt Murdock’ must have the key to link him to everything you just read.”

            “You mean he hasn’t been charged for this shit?” Frank jabs his finger on the files.

            “No,” Karen shakes her head, “it’s all just hearsay, evidence runs through so many channels the link back to him is blurred to the point it can’t be seen. But this guy you’re after must be the thing that can tie it all together for the D.A. in a nice, neat bow.”

            Frank barks a shocked laugh.

            “What?” Karen asks.

            “Nothing,” he starts, “Except the way you’re describing him sounds like he’s every conspiracy theorists’ wet dream.”

            “Well watch out then” Karen leans back, “or you might find your face on some creep’s corkboard with a pushpin and string.”

            “Well wouldn’t be the first time someone’s wanted to push something sharp through my skull,” Frank stands, “so what do you say?”

            “Not all the time,” Karen smirks, “but on certain days I do feel that stabbing urge towards you.”

            “What-oh, fuck you,” Frank rolls his eyes, “I meant will you help me find the dirt on this Murdock guy?”

            Karen leans her head on her fist, tapping a funky rhythm with her heel. She makes a show of it, which only furthers the severity of Frank’s rolling eyes.

            “Sure,” she says, finally, “I guess.”

            “You’re a sweetheart,” Frank moves forward, kissing the crown of her head, “Remind me to give you some _extra_ special attention next time we meet between the sheets.”

            “I’ll be sure to remember,” Karen smiles, “I’ll call when I find something.”

            “Thanks again!” Frank calls, leaving her office. He starts his way out of the building, sliding a cigarette from the packet and dropping it between his teeth. He then takes his lighter out and flicks it to life, raising it near his face.

            “Ahem.”

            He pauses, looking to his right. A man, a tad overweight and balding, stands with hands on his hips. His mustache has tiny beads of sweat hanging on them. He peers at Frank from behind his large glasses.

            “Yeah?” Frank asks.

            “Can you read?” the man points behind him, at a bright red and white sign, “No smoking.”

            “Strange,” Frank smirks, “Don’t think it’ll catch on though.” He winks at the man, “A for Effort though.” He lights the cigarette and takes a big puff, blowing the smoke out into the large man’s red face, taking satisfaction from how he splutters.

            Frank continues on his way out, the center of attention.

* * *

             “Fuckin’ hate the rain.”

            Frank keeps his head beneath the newspaper as he makes the brisk walk from the liquor store to his office. It’s been a few days since he’s started his… _investigation,_ and he needed to dip into his ‘research fund’ to stock up on supplies. The brown bag filled with top shelf quality alcohol is clutched tight to his chest, their safety more to his concern than his dryness.

            He’s paused at the street corner, the red hand bright even on this dark day. He’s considering just making a run for it, even if there’s a parade of cars splashing their way between him and the next stretch of sidewalk. That is, until he feels the rain stop.

            He looks up to see red fabric blocking the water from pelting him.

            “I hope I’m not being too forward,” the small woman to his right says, startling him, “but you looked very wet.”

            Frank takes her in for a beat. The scarlet bandana tied around her forehead. The way her hair comes down in waves, the raven roots lightening to brunette the further down they go. Her peasant blouse is white, see-through. He can also tell she isn’t wearing a bra. Her skirt, also red, is decorated in patterns of hands. He raises a brow, his brain pricked with the sensation he’s seen this woman before.

            “Always liked a forward woman,” Frank tells her slowly, “nothing to apologize for.”

            “Very well.”

            The silence stretches on into awkwardness. He turns to face the street, but can still feel her eyes trailing over his body, doing the same thing to him what he did to her only moments ago. The little hand on the street signal seems to burn brighter before switching over to the walking man.

            “We can go, y’know,” Frank shrugs.

            The woman looks at the signal, and then back at him, saying, “Yes, we can.”

            Frank acknowledges the strange feeling rising in his stomach before taking a step off the sidewalk. She follows him, hand firmly grasping the umbrella’s handle.

            It’s at least another three city blocks before he notices the man trailing them. A good distance behind them, but still close enough to keep tabs on them. He stops suddenly, grabbing the strange woman’s arm.

            “Need to tie my shoe,” he tells her, holding the bag out to her, “Mind holding these?”

            She smiles, “Not at all.” She takes hold of the bag like it weighs nothing. He’s startled a bit, but decides to ignore it for now.

            He turns away from her, leaning down. His bangs hang in front of his face, getting soaked, along with the other parts of his body that hang outside the umbrella’s protection.

            While he unties and reties his boot, he allows his gaze to wander to the man by the phone booth.

            He’s tall and soaked to the bone, no umbrella in sight. His long hair hangs in clumps, blocking most of his face from view. The booth does well to hide most of him, yet he can see the bell-bottoms flare underneath, and the waterlogged leather of his sandals. The man does lean out a bit, thankfully, and Frank can see a bit more. How the slant of the man’s eyes, highlights his Asian descent. The way this goatee is strung together with loose, dirty hairs. How the bright red hand sits nestled between an open vest: similar in fashion to his companion’s skirt.

            “Alright, I think it’s tight now,” Frank stands.

            “You sure?” the woman holds the bag out. He doesn’t take it fast enough.

            “Definitely,” he nods, “I even double-knotted it.”

            “How thorough,” she says, walking forward, “I guess what they say about you is true.”

            Frank stays rooted to the spot, no care to the rain. “What?”

            She stops as well, turning. “You know,” she continues, “That Frank Castle never rests until a case is completely finished… whether it’s the case that’s closed… or the casket.”

            He’s on high alert. He clutches the bag tighter to his chest and takes note of his surroundings. The man behind him is much closer than before, and there’s at least seven things he can use as a weapon if needs be, or twelve if he’s willing to part with his booze.

            The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh please,” she says, “I’m not going to harm you… for now. We’re after the same thing, you and I?”

            It takes him a beat before he connects it together.

            “Matt Murdock?” he asks

            “In one,” she smiles, turning back around, “Come, you’ll catch a cold.”

            Frank does as she asks, however he does not let down his guard. He returns to the protective bubble of the umbrella, keeping as much distance between himself and the mystery woman as much as possible.

            They continue moving forward.

            “So,” Frank starts, “Matt Murdock?”

            “Yes,” the woman smiles, “Matt Murdock.”

            Frank rolls his eyes. “What is it about this guy that’s got practically all of New York after him?”

            “It is not so much him,” she answers, “but what he possesses.”

            “Listen, lady,” Frank stops her again, “I’m too sober for this mysterious bullshit. Do you think you could cut the crap and the threatening double meanings and just get to your point?”

            Her stare is like daggers. He releases her in fear. She looks him up and down once more before moving forward.

            “Alright,” she says, “if I must. Follow, we’re close to your place anyway.”

            “You know where I work?” he asks.

            She smiles from over her shoulder, “We _really_ want to find Matt Murdock.”

            Frank rolls his eyes. “I take it ‘we’ means you and your buddy three feet behind us?” he asks, jerking a thumb at their companion.

            “Leaf and I aren’t the only ones concerned about Murdock,” she tells him, “he is important to all members of _The Hand_.”

            That’s when it hits him. Her face, on a fuzzy television screen, interviewed by multiple reporters from varying news stations. Her name flashes to his brain like it did on the television under her face.

            “You’re Elektra Natchios, aren’t you.”

            She says nothing, as Frank asked no question. So he tries a real one.

            “What’s the Hand got planned for this Murdock, guy?”

            She stops, startling him.

            “It’s best you never find out,” she smiles once more, turning on her heel. They stand face to face, her eyes boring into his. Danger radiates from every pore, and he can tell the soft clothing and hair only hides her edges.

            “Is that so,” he grunts.

            “It is,” she nods, then darts her eyes to her left for a second, “We’re at your office.”

            He looks to his right. “We are.”

            “I’m glad we were able to share this talk, Mr. Castle,” Elektra says, “and that I was able to keep you somewhat dry.”

            “If that’s what makes your day, lady,” he rolls his eyes, hitting the buzzer to be let in. It rings, and he opens his door, only to pause when she clears her throat.

            He looks back at her, no longer alone as Leaf decided to join her. Her venomous smile is still plastered to her face.

            “One last thing, Mr. Castle,” she says, “your arrangement with Mr. Fisk?”

            “What about it?”

            “If you knew what’s best for you,” she beams, “you’d keep him alive and alert us immediately once you’ve found him.”

            He stares at her. “…I’ll keep that in mind.”

            “That’s all we can ask for,” she nods, “Have a nice evening.” She hands the umbrella to Leaf and continues forward. He holds it over her and her alone, still allowing the rain to pelt him like no tomorrow. Frank watches them disappear into the downpour before entering the building completely.

            “Usually don’t need to break into my strongest bottle until bedtime,” he sighs, “but today I’ll have to break tradition.”

            He continues up the stairs, digging into the somewhat moist brown paper bag for something with high in alcohol content.

* * *

 

            The building is massive, impressive even. Frank loses track of how many stories he counts when it starts to disappear into the clouds. He whistles loud and long. It attracts the attention of pit bull and it drags its owner closer to Frank. The P.I. stares down at the dog in amusement.

            “I’m so sorry,” the owner says, “she usually never does this-“

            “It’s alright,” Frank leans down, petting the dog. She leans into his touch. “Dogs sort of do this with me, _especially_ pit bulls. What’s her name?”

            The man chuckles a bit, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, “Peaches.”

            “Peaches, huh?” Frank laughs, “Always wanted a pit bull of my own, you know.”

            The other man’s laughter turns more awkward, and he starts to tug on the leash. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I really must get going-“

            “I understand,” Frank stands, finally looking at the owner, “I have an appointment to keep as well.” He looks at Peaches, “And you be a good girl.”

            She barks, and then follows her owner away from him. He smiles at her one last time before turning back to look at the corporate building. He takes a deep breath and walks forward.

            The lobby is bigger than he imagined, with a _lot_ more marble. He keeps moving forward, eyes darting from one shiny object to the next until he reaches the front desk. A small cough brings his attention to the woman behind the front desk.

            “Excuse me… _sir_ ,” she says with a disgusted smile, “But unless you have an appointment-“

            “But I do,” Frank interrupts, smiling, “with Mr. Nelson for 2 o’clock.”

            Her smile falls and she picks up the phone post haste. She dials a number and whips it towards her ear.

            Frank keeps his smile on his face, looking around the building some more. His eye catches a small stain on his brown corduroy jacket, and tries to remember if it was sauce or blood that caused it. He shrugs, deciding to forgo thinking about and return his attention the lady at the front desk. She has returned the phone to its rightful place and looks at him with an even stormier smile.

            “He’s waiting for you on the 12th floor,” she tells him, “third door on the left. There’ll be a plaque.”

            “Thanks,” Frank salutes her. He leaves, whistling a jaunty tune. He slides into the elevator, and the last thing he sees before the doors close is her icy stare.

            It doesn’t take long before he finds what she was talking about. The gold plaque stands bright and shiny next to the oak door. Frank knocks loudly.

            “Come in!”

            Frank opens the door and immediately stops. He looks around the room with wide eyes, the shift very noticeable. Outside the office was nice and clean, but inside, Mr. Nelson kept everything packed and cluttered.

            “Close the door!” the man says, “Someone might walk by.”

            Frank closes the door and takes careful steps into the room. He looks for a seat, but sees nothing that isn’t already occupied.

            “Sorry for the mess,” Nelson moves from behind the desk, running fingers through his greasy hair, “I’ve only been promoted two weeks and they’ve already decided I’m ready to handle billion dollar cases.” He picks up some files from a chair and returns to his desk.

            “Must have a lot of faith in you, then,” Frank smiles, plopping into the seat.

            “They’re not the only ones,” Nelson sits as well, folding his hands and leaning forward, “What was the article title your people were running with?”

            Frank scratches at his ear, chuckling, “About that…”

            Nelson loses his polite smile.

            “If you aren’t here to interview me for an article,” he says, “what are you here for?”

            “I’m actually here on a case,” Frank leans forward in his seat, “regarding the disappearance of a Matt Murdock. I heard you two were pretty close in college?”

            Nelson shoots him a look, “From who?”

            _“Franklin Nelson,” Karen hands him the file from her purse. Frank takes it and peruses it from where he sits on the park bench. The day is bright and people are milling about, enjoying themselves._

_“This guy knew Murdock?” Frank waves the files in the air, “Seems pretty strange from all the other company he’s kept.”_

_“College roommates from up until senior year,” Karen says, “It’s the only thing I could find on Matt Murdock besides his dead father and the accident.”_

_“Accident?” Frank asks, “What accident?”_

_“There wasn’t much available, someone had come in earlier and swamped the place,” Karen tells him, “All I know is that it involved a truck and him ending up with a disability.”_

_“Nothing else?”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Damn,” Frank curses, “that would have made my job a touch easier.”_

_“Probably hasn’t made his life easier,” Karen rolls her eyes._

_“The shit he’s involved in now hasn’t made his life easier either,” Frank smirks at Karen. She pushes him, and he nearly falls off the bench._

_“Cool it,” he flicks out the lapels of his coat, “these are my only pair of pants without stains on them.”_

_“Even you can put quarters in a machine, Frank,” Karen huffs, “besides, I could have easily told you all of this over the phone. Why did you want to meet here?”_

_“…Safety reasons,” Frank mutters. “Anyway,” he says, changing topics, “you sure this Nelson guy will see me?”_

_“Oh he will,” Karen smirks, getting up, “because I already scheduled a meeting for you, tomorrow at 2.” She starts to leave._

_“You’re not my secretary!” He yells at her retreating figure._

_“You know it!”_

            “I have my ways,” Frank says finally, “Anyway, Murdock… you two keep in touch after college?”

            Nelson sighs, turning. He sighs and shakes his head, “I knew he’d find trouble eventually.”

            “What was that?”

            Nelson somehow sighs even louder. “Sorry, it’s just,” he rubs at his temple, “I thought I left all this behind once I graduated and went to law school.”

            “Maybe if you start at the beginning,” Frank tells him, “I’ll understand.”

            “Well,” Nelson starts, “when I met Matt, he seemed normal enough. Well, except for his… _you know_ , a pretty standard guy. He kept in great shape, was intelligent, and was able to keep our room nice and neat seeing as I did a shit job of it.” He gestures around his office as an example. “Anyway, it was like a roommate match made in Heaven. He even wanted to be a lawyer, too, and I figured we’d both head on out to law school and be roommates there until… well, until he met _her_.”

            “Who’s her?” Frank asks.

            “Elektra Natchios.”

            The name sends warning signals to his brain, and his body freezes.

            “The woman from the Hand?” he hears himself asking, mouth moving without being told to do so.

            “Yeah, the one from the news,” Nelson nods, “I’ve seen her, but no Matt. Which is surprising, since in our senior year they were _inseparable._ Most days I would find them in our room, smoking the marijuana, making out, and just talking nonsense. His studies dropped, as did his grades, and he stopped going to class. Kept trying to sell me on the bullshit the bitch was polluting his mind with. Saying how ‘becoming a lawyer only furthers a corrupt system’ and that ‘true justice comes from doing right no matter what’. Everything flipped. He grew his hair out, wore tie-dyes and Birkenstocks, and even tried to learn the guitar. By the time spring semester came to an end, he said he was dropping out to join Elektra and her group’s ‘crusade’. At that point I didn’t care what he did, he wasn’t the person I befriended. He’d change: gone hippie on me.”

            “And after that,” Frank continues, “Nothing?”

            “Not a thing,” Nelson breaths, “I hope that helps?”

            “Somewhat,” Frank shrugs, getting up. He starts towards the door before Nelson gasps excitedly.

            “Wait!” he yells, “I just remembered something?”

            “Yes?” Frank turns.

            “In sophomore year,” Nelson continues, “during winter break, he took me to this gym from his childhood. He said it was very important to him growing up. You might want to check it out.”

            “Does the gym have a name?”

            “Right,” Nelson shakes his head, “I think it was… Fogwell’s.”

            “Fogwell’s?” Frank asks, “In Hell’s Kitchen?”

            “That’s the one!” the lawyer snaps his fingers, “Said he basically grew up there. He had a tough childhood. I was only in that place for a night and I couldn’t let my guard down. I’m glad I never have to step there again.”

            Frank rolls his eyes, “Lucky you.”

            “Is that all?” Nelson asks, “You good?”

            “Yeah,” Frank opens the door, “Peachy.” He lets the door slam behind him.

            The elevator ride back down is much slower than before and allows him to think: mainly about Matt Murdock.

            The fact that Frank might have passed him on the street at one time and didn’t even realize. How the Hand got to him and managed to easily sway him to their side. But most importantly, what could a hippie have that has him the center of attention for not only a criminal empire but also a new age movement.

            His train of thought stops when the elevator dings at the ground floor. He walks out, grinning, winking at the lady in front once more, and whistling that same tune right out the door.

* * *

             For once, the night is clear in Hell’s Kitchen. The moon hangs high in the sky, the only celestial body visible in the city. Frank prefers this light, as it gives him just enough to do simple tasks, like breaking & entering, but still allows for the perfect cover of darkness.

            He’s by the backdoor, kneeling in the dirty alley, as he uses his tools to pick at the lock. It takes some time, but he hears the usual clicks and tumbles and he breathes in relief.

            Frank opens the door slowly, looking around before entering fully. He closes the door behind him, locking it.

            It takes some time but his eyes adjust to the darkness. It helps that he brought a flashlight.

            He shines it around, taking in the surroundings. In the middle of the gym sits a large boxing ring that’s seen better days. Hanging in different areas around the room are punching bags, most with the stuffing coming out. However, he strikes gold when he stumbles upon a row of lockers.

            “Jackpot,” he mumbles, shining the flashlight over the rusting metal. He looks to see if any are open, which, most of them are.

            Downside: the open ones are all empty. He _triple_ checks. The remaining ones, the closed ones, look like they haven’t been opened in ages.

            “Shit,” he curses, backing away.

            He continues looking around, trying to see if there might be anything else that could give him something, anything.

            That’s how he almost misses it.

            It’s covered in layers of dust, but it reflects the light from Frank’s flashlight and it makes him pause. He walks closer to investigate.

            He takes his fingers and rubs it across the dusty rectangle to reveal a pair of eyes staring back at him. They’re black and white, showing the age. Frank dusts off more to reveal a full face in seconds, along with a name.

            “Battlin’ Jack…”

            The name jumps out of him and strikes a chord. It’s something he’s seen before, recently.

            _‘…a dead father…’_

            “Murdock,” Frank’s eyes widen. It all comes back to him: everything from the file about Matt’s dad, Jack Murdock. His days as a boxer and the unfortunate accident after a winning match that led to Matt basically becoming an orphan.

            Frank puts the flashlight between his teeth as he lifts the picture closer to inspect. He turns it around, and almost drops the flashlight from delight. Taped to the back of the photo is a folded piece of paper. He rips it off the back and hangs up the photo.

            He’s about to open it when he hears it: the sound of locks being picked.

            Frank extinguishes his light in seconds, pocketing both the flashlight and the scrap of paper before jumping behind the ring. He draws forth his gun from its holster.

            The door opens, and two shadows make their way in as well. Like Frank, they dressed appropriately as well. However, they lack the skull on the front of their shirts.

            Frank bites back a curse as the two other intruders blend right in, making it hard for him to follow them.

            But he hears them, and he dives under the ring before one happens upon his hiding spot. It’s darker there than it is in the gym. He crawls in the direction he believes the door is, and thanks all that is pure when he pulls up the curtain to see it open.

            He’s about to make a run for it when he hears them start to talk.

            “…he is here?”

            “She said this was one of the many places he would talk about to her, when he dreamed of his old life.”

            “It looks as if no one has been here in ages.”

            “There might still be something, we were told not to return to The Black Sky unless we found something…”

            Frank can hear them rustle through the lockers behind him,

            ‘ _Perfect_ ,’ he thinks as he starts to crawl out from under the ring. He stays low, on his hands and knees, crawling. With two people instead of one, the men do a quicker job at tearing through the lockers than Frank did, so he tries to pick up the pace. He makes it to the door just when it happens.

            The door swings shut. Frank pauses where he is, head down. The rustling behind him stops.

            “Was that the wind?”

            “Maybe, but go check. Just in case.”

            Frank realizes he has no choice. He jumps up and throws the door open, without care to the surprised shouts behind him. He tucks his tail between his legs and runs, deciding today was not the day for this battle.

            He’s about to turn when he hears something whiz by his head; lodging itself into the brick wall in front of him. Frank pauses long enough to see the silver glint of a throwing star jutting out from the building. His eyes widen and he makes the turn, gun tight in his hand.

            There’s another turn, but instead of moving forward he waits. He can hear the footsteps making their way down the alley. The men are at the corner and.

            _BLAM!_

_BLAM!_

            Both go down, one on top of the other.

            Frank can already hear the lights turning on around him, so he knows he doesn’t have time before the cops get involved. He flips one of the men over and tries to get a good look. He pulls off the mask and recognizes the face immediately.

            It’s Leaf.

            He looks around, just in case, before opening more of the suit. Sitting on his chest, like days before, is the necklace with the blood red hand on it.

            The sirens are fast approaching.

            He rips the necklace off the dead Hand member and makes a break for it.

            While he flees, he doesn’t see the figure emerging from the shadow. But just as soon as it appeared, it disappears when the cops enter the scene. There’s two of them, young. One has bright red hair and freckles darting across his face. The other is tanned with slicked back black hair and a strong jaw.

            “Holy shit,” one says to the other, “when did New York get ninjas?”

            “No clue,” the other says, “but we better call this in-“

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

            “Who said that-“

            The ginger cop never finishes his statement, the sharp sai protruding from his chest. The weapon is pulled from his chest and he falls onto the other two bodies. Standing behind him is a woman in a blood red and black body suit.

            “What the fuck!” the tanned cop shouts, hand going for his gun.

            “You wouldn’t want to do that,” she says, roundhouse kicking it out of his hand. She kicks him one more time, knocking him on his bottom. He stares up at the woman as she stalks forward leaning down.

            “Please…” he whimpers, “have mercy…”

            “Oh, don’t worry, I do,” she purrs, leaning forward slowly. But then she moves quick, taking a syringe from behind her back and stabbing the cop in the neck.

            “What the… _oh_.”

            “It’s fast-acting,” she smiles, pulling the face mask down, “feels _groovy_ doesn’t it?”

            “Totally,” the cop says, eyes dilated. His face, once tight with fear, is now relaxed. He smiles vacantly.

            “You feel grateful that I did this,” the woman continues, trailing a knuckle down his smooth skin, “so much so you want to thank me.”

            “I do,” the cop nods, “I’d do anything.”

            “Perfect,” she smiles, “Then please, take these bodies and ditch them for me where _no one_ will find them.”

            “And then?”

            “Then?” she laughs, “Call in to your _bosses_ , “The Man” and tell them you quit. Then find the nearest Hand recruiting booth and tell them you are there to serve the Night Sky.”

            “I serve the Night Sky,” the cop stands.

            “You live for the Night Sky.”

            “I live for the Night Sky.”

            “You’d _die_ for the Night Sky.”

* * *

 

            Frank opens the closest bottle he has and downs it in seconds. After he took down those two guys he ran and didn’t stop running until he was in front of the door to his office.

            He ditches the sweater, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto his chair. He grabs a second bottle and brings it with him as he collapses onto his sofa. Frank takes a long swig once more, and then begins to catch his breath.

            “Good Lord…”

            He finally allows himself to process what happened, now that a small buzz is starting to set in. He plays with the necklace in his hand. The totem only serves to drag up more questions about the seemingly _peaceful_ organization: and their focus of attention, Matt Murdock.

            Then he remembers the slip of paper in his pocket.

            He sits up, digging into his pocket until he feels the paper in his fingers. He pulls it out and unfolds it, reading the scribbled information.

            “A phone number,” he says, understanding what the series of numbers means.

            Frank jumps up, walking towards his phone. He pulls the base towards him to dial while he sits on his chair. He kicks off his shoes and dumps his feet on his desk, placing the handset near his ear.

            It rings for a long time before someone picks up.

            “You do know what time it is right?”

            The voice on the other end is female, tired. But Frank is tired as well, which is why he asks:

            “Are you Matt Murdock?”

            It gets so silent Frank thinks the woman might have hung up on him. However, she proves him wrong in the next minute.

            “How the fuck did you get this number?”

            “Woah, woah, calm down there,” Frank says.

            “No,” she returns, “you shouldn’t have my number. How’d you get-“

            “I found it behind the picture.”

            Another pause.   “Shit.”

            “Shit?”

            “I left that number,” the woman explains, “for Matt, when he comes back. To tell me that he was in the city.”

            “So you know Matt?”

            “…Who’s askin’?”

            “Frank. Frank Castle,” he answers, “I’m a private investigator. Hired by this guy named… _Nelson_. Old college friend of Matt’s. He’s worried.”

            “Nelson?” the woman asks, “Franklin Nelson?”

            “That’s the one!”

            “Boy, and I thought Matt was just making up someone that cares so he didn’t seem lonely…”

            “Who’s this?”

            “Huh?”

            Frank rolls his eyes, “My turn. Who are you?”

            “The name’s Claire,” she says, “That’s all you’re getting.”

            “Fair enough,” Frank shrugs, “How’d you meet Matt?”

            “I was struck with a sudden case of charity one night and decided to take in the bleeding guy on the roof of my building,” she explains, “I’m a nurse, so I know how to stitch close a wound or two. Biggest mistake of my life. When the pretty white boy wakes up I get told that I’m now in danger because I helped him and I can’t know anymore and blah blah blah and I honestly drowned myself in tequila the minute he left.”

            Frank chuckles, “Yet you still left him a number.”

            “Like I said,” Claire sighs, “charity: it hits hard and it hits fast. Felt bad for the guy. He told me he had to skip town, and he didn’t know when he would get back. I told him to call me if he ever comes back, and he told me where to put the number.”

            “So you know where he is?”

            “I do,” Claire chuckles, “But I ain’t just gonna tell you over the phone. If Hoover can get my phone call so can any prick with determination.”

            “I understand,” Frank nods, “so where we gonna meet?”

            “I’m not meeting you,” Claire tells him, “I’ve probably said too much already.”

            “So what are you gonna do?”

            “Tell you the same thing he told me to tell anyone who wants to find him,” she says, “you need to ‘follow the North Star of Old, to a place short a hem, and the grooves are always just right.’”

            Frank rolls his eyes, “Hippies.”

            “Exactly,” Claire sighs, “Now as much as I love talking at four in the morning, I’m going to go back to sleep because I have double shifts tomorrow. Good night.”

            She hangs up on him. He places the phone back on his desk. Frank pulls out a cigarette and lights it, puffing on the nicotine stick periodically. He shifts his feet a little on the desk so he can lean back fully in his chair. He places his hands behind his head and tries to think.

            The answer comes to him just as the sun is starting to rise.

* * *

             _“Hey, Karen, calling to let you know I’m alive. With everything going on right now, that’s a miracle. You know how we thought I was in deep shit before… well turns out we didn’t even reach the bottom of the shit well._

_Anyway, I’m going to be gone for a couple of days-don’t know how long. And I don’t know where._

_That’s a lie, I do. I’m just not telling you because the less you know the better._

_And don’t worry about how I’ll get there; just know that it won’t be legal. And I know how much you don’t like knowing the illegalities with which I live my life._

_I’m gonna hang up now, I’m calling from a payphone and the little voice is telling me I’m running out of time. Like I’m gonna put any more quarters in-“_  

* * *

 

            The wheel of the truck is loosely held in Frank’s paw. He has a fedora on, as well as sunglasses, and he keeps his eyes on the road. That is, until he passes a sign.

            _WELCOME TO BETHEL, NEW YORK_

**Author's Note:**

> What did ya think? Leave a kudos or a comment or both if you really want to let me know!


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